


Between Prophecy Lies Our Fate

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Prostitute Dean Winchester, Prostitution, Sex, Teen Dean Winchester, Underage Drinking, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: Castiel has watched the earth from afar, unattached and unfamiliar with humanity. That is, until he receives an assignment from the archangels to befriend seventeen year old Dean Winchester, heaven's most previous weapons. As Castiel grows close--too close--with Dean, he learns that there is much more to Dean than his part to play in heaven's prophecy.Abandoned by his father to yet another new town, Dean has chosen to sell himself to provide for his little brother. After one fatal night, Dean falls into the path of a blue-eyed stranger, not yet aware that the arms that protect him are wings in disguise.





	1. Roles

**November, 1996 – Heaven**

            Castiel closed his eyes as the sound of folding wings broke the silence of the room.

            “Naomi,” he said in a low voice. He sighed, then turned to look at the angel standing beside him. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Castiel looked back over at the shimmering image on the wall, a window down to earth. Today he was watching over a playground, though for the moment it was unoccupied.

            Naomi huffed out a small, delicate laugh, though it was a far cry from the laughter he often heard from the humans—especially in a park like this one, where the young humans  chased each other in circles or threw balls at each other. Castiel was used to watching earth in this way. Parks were one of the happier windows into humanity. Maybe that was why he preferred to keep an eye on them over all other places on earth. Parks reminded him of God’s plan for the earth, of the beauty trapped inside all the hate.

            “Busy? Busy doing what, Castiel?” Naomi asked.

            “Watching the earth. That is my job, isn’t it? To watch, to do nothing, to wait.” Castiel shook his head and bit his lip, trying to keep the agitation from his voice. He glanced down at his hands, curling his fingers into his palm so that his knuckles grew white with the pressure. He was a soldier. A _warrior_. And yet here he was, standing in one of heaven’s many rooms, keeping an eye on a human playground located somewhere in the American Midwest.

            “You’re right, but heaven has a job for you.”

            Castiel looked at her with a frown. “For me, or for the garrison?”

            Naomi’s eyes flickered over his face, and the corner of her lip twitched with the hint of a smile. “For you, Castiel. The archangels have decided to give you a mission.”

             “Which one?”

            “Michael.”

            Castiel’s brows furrowed, and he cocked his head to one side. “He told you this directly?”

            Naomi’s smile dropped for a second. Castiel could tell her patience was waning. “The message came to me through Zachariah—who remains your direct superior, in case you have forgotten.”

            “My memory extends since the dawn of time. I have not forgotten.”

            “Of course,” Naomi said, her smile growing again. Something flickered in her eyes, but before Castiel could hone in on it, the thought was gone. “Well then. Can I explain your mission, or must I call Zachariah here?”

            Castiel’s eyes moved from Naomi to the window down to earth. He stared at the children now running around the playground, at the little boy with a wide smile plastered to his face as he flew down a metal slide. “I’m listening.”

            Suddenly, Naomi waved at the window, and the park disappeared. In its place was a human school—a large, sprawling building with the words Truman High School plastered above the front doors.

            “What is this?” Castiel asked, stepping forward to get a better look. He watched as a human boy in a brown leather jacket pushed open the doors. Quickly, the boy drew a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, glanced around, then lit the end with a lighter. “Who is that?”

            “Dean Winchester,” Naomi said, her voice sour. Castiel turned to look over his shoulder at the look of disdain clearly etched across Naomi’s face. “A human male, aged 17. Bit of a troublemaker by human standards, but simply more of a nuisance by ours.”

            “What of him?”

            “Let’s just say that he is of special interest to your superiors,” Naomi said. Before them, Dean took a long drag of his cigarette and began to pace back and forth in front of the school.

            “He’s upset.”

            “Yes,” Naomi said, almost thoughtfully. “I suppose he his. Dean Winchester has not had the easiest of lives. In fact…” Naomi began, her hand reaching out in front of Castiel’s eyes. With a wave, the window disappeared, leaving only a blank white wall in its place. “That is where you come in.”

            Castiel turned around and stared at her with a frown. “You want me to console an insignificant human teenager?”

            “If need be. Your assignment is to befriend this Dean Winchester, get to know him on a human level. I want you to learn everything you can about him, about his state of mind, then report back to me with your findings.”

            “I don’t understand. Why would the archangels care—”

            “Because it is their prerogative to assign tasks to their soldiers _as they see fit_ ,” Naomi snapped. “Are you not a soldier, Castiel?”

            Castiel swallowed and steeled his gaze at Naomi. “I am.”

            “Then do as you are told. Find a vessel, then find this Dean Winchester. You do not want to keep me waiting.”

            With another flap of wings, Naomi was gone. Castiel looked around the empty room, then back to the wall where the window was once. He waved his hand, and the image of Truman High School blinked back into existence.

            With a curious look, Castiel stepped up to the wall until the tip of his nose was nearly brushing it. Dean Winchester was now striding across the school’s parking lot with an angry, yet determined look on his face as he approached a sleek black car.

            “Who are you, Dean?” Castiel whispered as the boy drove the car out of the parking lot, his cigarette dangling out the open window. “What am I going to find in you?”

            As the car screeched around the corner and disappeared into the distance, Castiel straightened his shoulders and closed his eyes. He had not been to earth since…since 1901? Hopefully this mission would go more smoothly than the last.

 

* * *

  **November, 1996 – Iowa**

 

            As Dean entered the dive bar, he released a sigh of relief at the warmth. It was only November, but the weather had already begun to turn in wherever the fuck they were currently holed up in. Iowa? Indiana? With so many moves already this year, it was hard to keep track.

            Dean let his eyes scan the crowded bar as he made his way to the counter. Although many of the patrons did glance his way as he walked past, Dean could tell most of them weren’t _his_ kind of patrons. After doing this for nearly two years, his type were easy enough to pick out of a crowd. It was the loneliness that clued Dean in more than anything else. Yeah, a nice wristwatch or fancy shoes meant the guy had money, but Dean had quickly learned that it wasn’t money than prompted a guy to pay for a pretty face. It was cold, heavy loneliness, the kind that fell on your shoulders and just _settled there_. The kind that could supposedly be cured by a night with a boy like Dean. Luckily for him though, most guys couldn’t cough up enough cash for a whole night, and they were forced to come back again and again for a quickie in the bathroom stall. It was a dirty way of living that used to make Dean’s skin crawl, but when John was away hunting, it did the job. It kept Sammy fed are cared for.

            “What can I do you for?” a burly looking bartender said as Dean settled onto his stool.

            “Whiskey, neat.”

            The bartender looked him up and down, then set down the glass he was cleaning to cross his arms over his chest. “You got some ID?”

            Dean pulled out his wallet and quickly flipped through a few different ID cards before pulling one out and handing it to the man.

            “Huh,” the bartender huffed, looking between Dean and the card. “You’re twenty-three?”

            Dean flashed the man his best smile. “Moisturizer. Does wonders to keep you lookin’ young. I can tell you’re in on the secret too.”

            The bartender put the card down on the counter and slid it back towards Dean. “Whatever, Romeo. I’ll get you that drink,” he said, turning back around.

            Dean grinned and went back to surveying the bar. Just as his eyes passed over a group of college girls giggling in the corner, his eyes met those of a man at the end of the bar. The man sat alone with three glasses already empty before him and another in his hand filled with something dark. He looked to be in his forties, with salt and pepper hair and a mustache that honestly gave Dean the creeps, but hey, Dean couldn’t afford to be picky. Not when Dad was gone for who knows how long this time and Sammy needed new supplies for school.

            Dean gave the guy a once over, then quirked a smile. _Show time_ , Dean thought as the bartender set the whiskey down on the counter.

            “Thanks,” Dean said, tearing his eyes away from the man.

            “Look kid,” the bartender began, his eyes flicking over to the end of the bar. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I want no trouble here, ok?”

            Dean frowned innocently. “Trouble?”

            The bartender leaned in closer, and his voice dropped into a whisper. “That guy you’re making eyes at? He comes here most nights of the week, and let’s just say that he ain’t my favorite customer.”

            Dean laughed and took a swig of his whiskey, wincing as the liquid burned down his throat. “I can take care of myself.”

            The bartender lifted his hands in defeat. “Ok Romeo, but don’t be callin’ the cops to my establishment when the night don’t turn out in your favor.”

            With that the bartender gave one more look at the other man then moved to help a couple seated further along the counter. Dean took another drink, then glanced at the potential customer out of the corner of his eye.

            _Yahtzee._ The man was on his feet and heading in Dean’s direction.

            “You new to town?” the guy said, sliding into the seat beside Dean.

            Dean shrugged, deciding to play coy. “New enough to not know your name.”

            The man laughed and placed his elbow on the counter, resting his head in his hand as he stared at Dean. “Name’s John. You got a name, kid?”

            Dean felt his throat tighten at the man’s name. _You have got to be kidding me_. “Dean,” he forced out, before raising his half-empty glass to his lips again. Dean threw back his head and drained the entire thing. “John. _Awesome_.”

            “Dean,” John said, leaning in closer until Dean could smell the alcohol on his breath. John put his hand up, signaling the bartender for another drink. “What are you doing at this shitty place on a Friday night?”

            The bartender slid a second glass his way before returning to the couple. Dean nodded in thanks and threw back the entire thing, very aware of the way John’s eyes stared hungrily at him. As Dean set the glass back down, he decided it was time to get things really going. He couldn’t afford to waste all night on one customer.

            Dean swiveled on his stool so that his legs rested against John’s, and he felt the man’s hand creep to his knee. Dean leaned into the touch and moved in closer until his lips brushed against the man’s ear. The scent of sweat and unwashed body was nearly overpowering, but Dean forced himself to keep going. He had dealt with worse, after all.

            “Baby, I’ll do whatever you want…for the right price.”

            Dean pulled away as John’s hand slid further up his leg. The man smirked at Dean, giving a thorough once over before his eyes landed on Dean’s mouth. “How’s sixty?”

            “Sixty don’t buy you much, you know.”

            John’s fingers curled into Dean’s leg, digging through the soft denim. “Oh, I know. But it’s enough for me.”

            Dean forced a smile and said in a low voice, “follow me.” He rose to his feet, John’s hand falling from his leg, and began to walk towards the front door. As he walked, Dean felt John following close behind, and he tried to ignore the creeps he was definitely getting from this guy. There was something _off_ about him, something _wrong_. At the back of his mind, Dean could hear his own John, his own father, screaming at him to end it here and now. But if he closed up shop for the night, that meant no notebooks or pencils for Sammy’s freshman year. No new sneakers to replace the ones with the holes in the toes from Sammy’s last growth spurt. It meant coming home with an empty wallet, and that just wasn’t an option.

            Just as Dean began to push open the door, it swung open in front of him, revealing a tall, admittedly handsome, dark haired man in a trenchcoat. The man’s bright blue eyes widened as he stared directly at Dean.

            Dean felt a shudder run down his spine, and after a moment, he forced himself to break away from the man’s piercing gaze. “Dude,” Dean said in a low voice. “You’re, uh, you’re blocking the door.” Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder at John, who sported an impatient look.

            The trenchcoat man blinked and looked between Dean and John before rigidly stepping aside. “My apologizes,” he said, his voice a like a low grumble as if the sound was emerging from deep inside the man’s chest.

            “Uh yeah. Thanks.” Dean gave the man a quick nod and exited the bar, brushing past as he went by.

            As Dean led his patron down the sidewalk and around to the alley beside the bar, he looked back over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure why exactly, but there was something about Blue-eyes (God, his brain had already nicknamed the guy) that felt…different. Safe. Like he was somehow watching out for a messed-up kid like Dean who was about to suck off some middle-aged creep behind a dive bar.

            _As if you’re not already beyond saving_ , Dean thought, shaking his head as they rounded the corner.

            Dean stepped out of the yellow pool from the street lamp above and into the dark alley, scanned the narrow street for a good spot, then walked a little ways down to where they could be hidden from any pedestrians by a large dumpster. Finally, Dean halted and faced John.

            “So,” he said as John’s hungry eyes turned to him. “You know how this works, right?”

            John huffed out a little laugh. “Yeah, I know. I pay the whore before anything happens.” John reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and plucked out three twenties. He held them up. Dean reached for them, but John pulled his hand away with a _tsk._

            “Dude, you know that ain’t how this works,” Dean said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. Nobody likes an angry whore. Dean had learned that quickly enough when he began doing this sort of work.

            “Well Dean, this is how it’s going to work tonight, or you walk away with nothing,” John said, stepping closer. Dean had no choice but to back up until he felt the rough scratch of the bricks behind him. “Is that really an option for you, sweetheart?”

            Dean swallowed and looked up the alley. They were alone—and besides, what was he going to do? Call for help, say that the guy who was paying to get his dick stuck in a whores mouth was trying to cheat him out of his money?

            “Fine,” Dean forced out. He felt his heartbeat quicken, felt his breathing begin to pick up. Dean kept his back firmly against the wall, hating how it was more of a trap than a source of comfort. “But I want eighty, and it’s just a blowjob. That’s it.”

            “Fine,” John said softly. He reached and brushed his fingers across the hair at Dean’s temple. “On your knees then, Dean.”

            A shudder rolled down Dean’s spine at the prickling touch, but he forced his body to move even when every particle screamed at him to stop. Dean didn’t even understand why—he had dealt with rude guys before, dealt with rough guys before. John, though…he was a whole new class of creep.

            Dean sank down to the hard concrete, then looked up at John as he waited for him to undo his belt and zipper. As he fiddled with his belt, John met Dean’s eyes and laughed.

            “You’re so uncomfortable, for a whore,” he said, dropping the belt to the ground.

            “No offense, but this isn’t exactly my dream job,” Dean said, flashing the man an angry smile. He rolled his eyes and as John drew his half-hard cock from his briefs. After a moment passed, Dean asked, annoyed, “well, what are you waiting for?”

            John considered him, stroking his cock. Then with his foot, he nudged Dean’s arm. “Jacket off.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “I want your jacket off when I do this. I want to see your body behind all that ugly leather.”

            Dean shook his head. “Dude, it’s freezing out here, I can’t—”

            Suddenly, John reached back into his pocket and pulled out the three twenties and threw them down. Dean watched as the fluttered to the ground before his knees. “There. You’ll get another sixty when I’m done. Happy?”

            Dean looked at the cash. He bit his lip, thinking. The only weapon he had on him was a knife, and that was safely tucked inside one of his jacket pockets.

            _Oh, screw it_ , Dean thought, picking up the cash and tucking it inside his waistband. The guy was probably harmless, even if he gave off psycho vibes.

            With his teeth gritted, Dean pulled off his jacket and laid it down beside him. John smirked and stepped closer as Dean opened his mouth. He closed his eyes as the hardened cock passed his lips, bumping against the roof of his mouth until the man was fully inside Dean’s mouth. With a groan, John pressed further, and the tip of his cock reached the back of Dean’s throat. Just as Dean began to choke, John pulled out.

            Dean opened his eyes just as John suddenly bent down and wrapped a hand around Dean’s throat, starling him, sending him off balance so that Dean felt himself knocked back against the wall.

            “You know what I think, Dean? I think this isn’t enough for what I paid for,” John hissed as his grip tightened. He dragged Dean to his feet, pushing him flush against the brick wall. “Turn around,” he whispered, hot, putrid breath steaming against Dean’s mouth.

            “You—son—of a bitch,” Dean forced out, trying to pry the man’s hands from his throat. Dean attempted to kick out, but with John’s whole body pressed against him, Dean barely made contact. _What the hell,_ Dean thought desperately. The guy hadn’t even looked that built, but he was freakishly strong. Dean squirmed, trying again to free himself, trying to ignore the hard cock trapped against his stomach. “Get—the fuck—off me.”

            With a hard shove, John flipped Dean around, scraping his cheek and arm against the bricks. Little bursts of pain pricked his skin, but Dean hardly felt it as John fumbled at the fastenings of his jeans.

* * *

 

             Castiel jolted at the sound of Dean Winchester crying out in pain, and Just as he was about to run into the alley, he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

            “Naomi?” Castiel reeled, head whipping around in confusion. _White walls. Bright light. Heaven_. “He’s in trouble, Dean Winchester, I need to—”

            “You need to wait until the moment is right, Castiel,” Naomi said in an infuriatingly calm voice, removing her hand from Castiel’s shoulder.

            Castiel stared at the place her hand had been, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers. “There is a demon with the boy doing God knows what, and if you do not let me return to earth…”

            Naomi tilted her head. “You’ll what, Castiel? Disobey?” She laughed, bright eyes searching his face. “Do you understand what that demon wants from the Winchester boy?” Castiel shifted his weight and shook his head. Naomi pursed her lips and reached out again to touch his shoulder. Castiel stared at her manicured fingertips. “Touch, Castiel. It is what these humans crave, though some decide to take it rather than ask.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            Naomi sighed and dropped her hand away again. “Castiel, you will return to earth, but first you must allow this demon to do whatever he wants with the boy. Only then, with Dean vulnerable, will you step in.”

            Castiel’s brow furrowed, and a strange, bitter taste filled his mouth. “You want the boy to get hurt?”

            Naomi’s lips pulled into a curt smile. “Precisely. Be his hero, Castiel. Save the day. Gain his trust, but only once he is weak. Understand?”

            The words ran through Castiel’s head, but before he could so much as open his mouth in protest, the dark alley stood before him—only now, grunts and whimpers of pain echoed off the tall brick walls.

            With Naomi’s words still in his ear, Castiel crept forward until he was just behind a large green trash dumpster. Making sure to keep his body hidden, Castiel peered out from the edge, and immediately a sickening pit formed in his stomach.

            Castiel glanced down—his vessel appeared fine…so why did he feel this way? Choosing to ignore it for now, Castiel turned his gaze back to the two humans before him.

            The larger man who had followed Dean from the bar was pressed up against Dean, his pants hanging loose around his knees.

            “I don’t know yet what kind of sick creature you are, but trust me, you do not want me finding out.” Dean shoved his weight backwards, but the other man held fast, pressing Dean’s face into the wall with one hand.

_Be his hero, Castiel. Save the day. Gain his trust, but only once he is weak._

            Castiel shut his eyes in frustration—he would have screamed, if it would not have given away his position. Was that truly best for this Dean Winchester? Castiel had always followed heaven’s orders. Always. But never before had be been forced to watch a human suffer while he stood a mere foot away.

            A whimper sounded from the other side of the dumpster. _That’s it. Naomi can report me to Michael_ , Castiel thought, straightening up to his full height. His blade fell into his hand. _I will face the consequences._

* * *

 

 

            Dean shoved his elbow backwards, feeling it come into contact with the guy’s chest. John grunted, but his hands had already managed to undo the button and zipper. Dean glanced down at his jacket, but it was too far away for him to drag it closer with his foot.

            John’s fingers reached under Dean’s waistbands as he yanked them down, and his lips pressed wet, sloppy kisses against the back of Dean’s neck. “This is what a human like you gets,” John whispered. “What you _deserve_.”

            Dean felt the hair at his neck prick up. _Human?_ “I don’t know yet what kind of sick creature you are, but trust me, you do not want me finding out,” Dean grunted, trying to shove his weight backward.

            John held fast, laughing into Dean’s ear. “That so?” he drawled, kicking between Dean’s legs and causing Dean’s stance to widen just to keep his balance. John pressed in closer, and Dean winced when the thing’s cock pressed against his bare skin. “You don’t scare me, Winchester,” John hissed, rubbing up and down.

            Dean struggled against the man’s grip, but John only laughed. Dean’s eyes began to well up with his tears as he tried to fight back. “They told me not to kill you, but nobody said anything about having a little fun.”

            Dean shuddered at the tip of the man’s cock brushed past his entrance, and his eyes turned upwards towards the pitch black sky stretching high above them. _Please,_ Dean thought, his eyes stinging as they squeezed shut. Hot tears began to leak down his cheeks. _Please, if you’re out there--  
_

            All of a sudden, John whipped around like a hound catching a scent. "I know you're here," John hissed, momentarily forgetting Dean as he scanned the alley. "I can smell you."

"Step away from him," a low voice rumbled. Dean tried to crane his head to see who was there, but John's slid a hand up to his neck to keep him still.

"Yeah?" John sneered, clawing harder at Dean's throat. "What are you gonna do about it?"

John was silent for a moment, then turned completely. With John's hands gone, Dean's knees buckled, and he barely managed to keep himself upright as he leaned on the wall. He could barely see the man John was talking to, just the shadowed outline of a man in the alley, and a flash of some silver blade in his hand. A knife, but longer.

John hissed out a breath, rapidly turned around, and grabbed Dean by the throat. He shoved him higher up the wall, Dean's feet dangling, searching for a surface. Dean could see the stranger running towards him, blade outstretched, as John's fingers squeezed the air from his throat, and bent in close. "This isn't the end for you, boy," he whispered. John shoved Dean into the ground, cheek scraping against the pavement, and all he could hear as he struggled to push himself up was a few footsteps, then nothing. The alley was still.

With a groan, Dean found his feet and stepped away from the wall. He stared at his hand, turning his palm over. It was scraped raw and shaking. Finally, Dean turned.

            Blue-eyes stared back at him, a funny looking silver blade in his hand. It was clean. Dean looked down both ends of the alley. John was gone.

            Dean stared at the man, speechless. Blue eyes didn’t seem to know what to say either, but after a second or a minute his eyes flickered downwards before returning to Dean’s. "He ran off. I would have followed, but..."

            Dean glanced down, and he immediately felt heat rush to his stinging cheeks. With his eyes downcast, Dean hastily yanked up his boxers and jeans and fastened the closure. He looked back at the blue-eyed man.

            “Thank you,” Dean whispered. He blinked and quickly wiped away the tears still streaming uselessly from his eyes. Dean inhaled deeply, but the breathe came out shaky and tight.

            Blue-eyes stepped closer, dropping his hand with the blade down to his side. The man took another step, now a few inches away from Dean. “You’re hurt,” he said factually. The man lifted his free hand towards Dean’s face, but Dean flinched away before the man’s fingers could touch him.

            “D—don’t,” Dean stammered.

            The man’s hand fell away. “Of course.”

            Dean took another deep breathe, but this time it came out a tiny bit easier. Somehow this blue-eyed man’s presence was like a drink of cool water. It was crazy…but Dean felt calmer. Like for the moment, he wasn’t thinking about what had just happened. The terror had subsided a bit, and even though Dean was sure it would come back soon, it was a relief.

            “My name is Castiel,” the man said.

            Dean looked back at him, a little warily. “Dean,” he said quietly. “Dean Winchester.”

            Castiel crouched down, and Dean watched, confused for a second, before Castiel picked Dean’s jacket off the ground. He held it up to Dean, who took it gratefully. Dean winced a bit as he pulled it on over his scraped and scratched arms, but still the warmth was nice. “Thank you,” Dean said, suddenly embarrassed. Was that all he could say to a man who just protected him?

            “Would you like me to take you home, Dean Winchester?”

            Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, you don’t gotta do that. I…” Dean looked down the alley at the street. He had walked here after parking the car at the motel a dozen blocks down, so it wasn’t like that was an issue. And besides, he couldn’t have Sammy seeing him like this. Not with a new school year and all. He didn’t want to burden Sam with his own shit just yet. They got enough of that from Dad.

            “Is there anywhere else we can go? Not to like, impose or anything, but I…I don’t really want to go home like this.”

            Castiel stared at him, and just when Dean thought the man was about to say no and abandon him in the alley, he nodded. “I have a motel just down the street. You can sleep there for the night.”

            Dean frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose…”

            “You are no imposition, Dean Winchester.” Castiel’s hard features softened a bit, and Dean thought he saw what could even be a smile. “I want to know you’ll be safe tonight.”

            Dean searched Castiel’s eyes for something…something what? Suspicious? Devious? Something that he saw all to clearly in John’s eyes as he felt the man’s fingers close around his throat. Something he saw back in the bar but decided to ignore for the promise of cash to help Sammy.

Dean stared into the man’s eyes but found only clear blue staring back at him. He nodded. “Ok,” he said, wiping the tears still building in his eyes. Dean shook his head, trying to get his body to pull it together. “Ok."


	2. Angels Are Watching Over You

            Dean wasn’t sure what to expect when he stepped foot into Castiel’s motel room. A suitcase full of weapons? A wife waiting for her husband to come back to her? One of those walls you see in the movies with red string, photos of dead people, and pushpins stuck into a map?

            In reality, the last option would have made the most sense. Dean had seen it too many times in his dad’s cheap motel rooms, and to be honest he wouldn’t be surprised if this Castiel turned out to be a hunter too. He didn’t exactly look the part, but well…Dean had seen stranger things in his seventeen years.

            What he wasn’t expecting, though, was an immaculately kept room with not so much as a wrinkle on the rosy pink bedspread.

            “I, uh…I haven’t been here long.”

            Dean looked back at Castiel still standing in the doorway. “I can tell,” Dean said. He tried to give the man a smile, but his mouth hardly budged. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, then fall limply back to place. It was as if even his muscles had given up on fighting.

            _Pull it together, man_ , Dean told himself as he stepped further into the room. He blinked hard a few times, trying to clear his head. _You’re fine._

            When he realized Castiel still hadn’t followed him inside, Dean turned around and looked at the man in confusion. “You can come in you know. It is your room, after all.” Dean swallowed, then looked away sheepishly. “Thank you. Again.”

            Castiel stared at him for a moment before nodding and taking one stiff step into the room and shutting the door gently behind him. “Like I said, it is no trouble, Dean Winchester.”

            Dean’s mouth gave another halfhearted attempt at a smile, then he stared around the simple, yet thankfully clean room until his eyes landed on the bathroom. “I’m going to clean up, if that’s ok,” Dean said.

            Castiel nodded. “Of course.”

            Dean waited for the guy to say something else, but after another few seconds, Dean lifted his hand in some awkward wave-salute type thing, then made a beeline for the bathroom.

            As soon as the door was shut behind him, Dean turned towards the sink. A boy stared back at him, bruised and scratched and _broken_. Dean looked _broken_.

            _You’re fine_. _You’re fine_. _Pull it together, man._

            The boy just stared back, blinking through salt-crusted lashes. His chest began to rise faster and faster as he gulped down air.

            With a groan of frustration, Dean spun around. He looked down to see his fingers ball up into fists—he wanted to hit something, break something. Dean glanced back at the mirror, imagined what it would feel like to punch his hand through the glass, to watch the little shards disappear down the drain. Dean lifted his right fist and watched as his whole hand just trembled.

            Then he remembered Blue-eyes. Castiel. It was his mirror, his bathroom, his motel Dean would be destroying. He couldn’t exactly do that to the pretty blue-eyed man who’d saved him.

 _Screw mirrors_ , Dean thought bitterly as he began to yank off his clothes. His shaking fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans. _Screw the freakin lies they tell_. He didn’t feel like the used up whore he saw in the reflection. He was Dean Winchester. He had shot bullets at ghosts, chopped heads off of vampires. Some creepy guy trying to get into his pants was nothing new, and it was nothing to get fucked up over.

            After jamming the shower faucet all the way to red and waiting for it to warm up, Dean finally eased himself beneath the stream. He hissed when the water fell onto his broken skin, but Dean forced himself to remain still. This was the good kind of pain, at least. It meant he would be clean again, and if he was clean, he was safe. _That’s how it works, right._

            As Dean began to work the little bottle of vanilla shampoo through his hair and the body wash over his skin, he tried to keep his mind away from what had happened in the alley, but John’s words about Dean being human kept jumping back into his head.            

            Never before had Dean found himself picking up some kind of monster before…but if he had been so careless tonight, how many others had he been paid to get fucked by, paid to suck off? Dean could have gotten killed, or worse. He could have wound up like the things they hunted. He could have abandoned Sammy.

            As Dean watched the water swirling down the drain, his eyes fell upon a hand-sized bruise adorning his left hip. Then his eyes turned to the other side. Another bruise, dark and purple and shaped like the fingers of the man who had…who had raped him. Him. A whore. Who got paid to submit to all manner of men…and now monsters.

 _Maybe I deserved it_.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean muttered, slamming his slippery fist into the tile wall. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his face, letting the steaming water wash over it. It was like nothing he did was right, none of the shit he put himself through was good enough. Dean pounded his fist against the wall. “ _Fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ ,” he choked out, his eyes beginning to sting, his knees beginning to feel weak. Dean punched the wall once more, and this time he heard something crack, then he let his legs let give out. He sank to the shower floor as a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ crybaby sob erupted from his throat.

            “Dean?” a voice called out, muffled by the bathroom door. “Are you ok in there? I heard expletives.”

            Dean would have laughed if not for the choking sob breaking free from his chest. Dean looked over at the door. He hadn’t locked it.

            He looked back down at his hand, at the blood rinsing away from his knuckles as soon as it bloomed from his broken skin.

            “Dean?”

            He glanced back at the door, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, but the water kept on coming, kept on pouring down his face and swirling with the tears. “I—I,” Dean tried to say, but the voice that came out was small and weak.

            “Dean, I’m coming in.”

 

* * *

 

            It was the bruises Castiel saw first when he pulled back the plastic curtain and the steam drifted out the bathroom door—dark plum curved around Dean’s hips, possessive, swollen, muddled with inky blue. No man could leave such a mark.

            Castiel’s throat constricted at the sight of the demon’s handprints. _There it is again. That feeling_. He would have to consider it later. He had his mission to attend to now.

            Slowly, Castiel crouch down until he was at eye level with the boy curled on the shower floor. Dean’s back was arched, curved over to protect himself. He kept his head firmly looking away, though Castiel could clearly see the red tinting his freckled cheeks. Even in this state, it appeared that human condition required embarrassment over the exposed body.

            A sob wracked Dean’s body. Tentatively, Castiel reached a hand beneath the shower’s steady stream. It hovered over the boy’s hip.

 _Touch_. Naomi said the humans craved it. But what about a boy whose touch had just been violated?

 _At your doing_ , a voice reminded him. _You let it happen, you let it get that far_.

            Castiel closed his eyes. He took a breath, then gently lowered his hand until his fingertips brushed against the tender, purple skin.

            Dean flinched at first, but still Dean kept his face turned away. Another sob tore free. As Castiel ran his fingers across the demon’s mark, the dark plum began to fade to smooth, slightly tanned skin. Next Castiel placed his fingers on the raw scrape on Dean’s forearm, beige replacing red, relief replacing pain.

            “Castiel?” Dean looked over at him, confusion clouding his bloodshot eyes.

            “Shhh,” Castiel soothed, his fingers passing over another scrape. “I’ll take care of you.”

            Dean didn’t say a word, didn’t nod, didn’t object, only swallowed and allowed Castiel to work. Castiel ran his hand over Dean’s cheek, Dean’s throat, lifted him to a sitting position to reach the other side. All the while water rained down, soaking Castiel’s trenchcoat as it grew warm, then cool, then cold.

            As Castiel lifted his hand from the final bit of bruise along Dean’s hip, he frowned. Dean stared out at the small bathroom, his eyes red and dull. He was in shock. Castiel’s eyes rose to Dean’s forehead, to the spot between his emerald eyes. All it would take was the press of his finger, and the memory would fade away.

            “Dean?” Castiel whispered. He laid two fingers on Dean’s wrist to get his attention.

            Dean’s eyes turned to Castiel. His eyelids were heavy and swollen. “What are you?”

            Castiel bit his lip. “Do you want me to take it away?”

            The boy stared at him for a moment. Confusion, numbness, and a hint of fear passed through his eyes until his full lips parted. “No,” he croaked out. Then Dean shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

            Castiel ran his eyes over this Dean Winchester, this broken young human he was assigned to befriend, to learn about. He didn’t even know the boy, but still Castiel felt something in him stirring…something he had not felt before. It was different than the disgust on his tongue or the flip of his stomach he had experienced earlier today—it was deeper. He would even say human, if it were possible for an angel to acquire such emotions.

            As much as Castiel yearned to take the whole night away—the night _he_ was partially responsible for—he knew better than to fight the boy’s decision. It was Dean’s right, even if it hurt, and even if Castiel could not understand.

            With a sigh, Castiel nodded. “Let’s get you to bed,” he said softly, grasping Dean’s hand and pulling him to his feet. Like a half-asleep child, Dean followed Castiel by the tug of his hand until Castiel settled him beneath the rose colored bedspread.

            Castiel settled on the edge of the bed and tucked the blanket up to Dean’s chin, then let his hand rest on Dean’s arm as his eyelids fluttered shut. Castiel smoothed his wet hair against his forehead, wondering if he should have dried the boy off before tucking him inside. Castiel frowned, and his fingers paused on Dean’s temple.

            Dean had been so _numb_ while Castiel healed him in the shower, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be suspicious come morning. He did not think it wise to blow his cover just yet. Besides, the angels upstairs would be none too happy if Castiel revealed his angelic capabilities to his human assignment.

            So with the soft press of his forefinger against Dean’s temple, Castiel took the memory away. He moved from the bed to the lounge chair on the opposite wall and settled in to watch over Dean Winchester as he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Apple Pie

            _Soft._

Dean snuggled deeper into the bed, curling his fingers into the sheets and relishing in the way the puffy blankets filled every crevice of his body.

 _Warm_.

            God, it was so _warm_ here. Like his own heat times two. Or three. Much better than his motel room with Sam with the broken thermostat the old crone at the front desk who refused to fix it.

            _Sam?_

The thought drifted through Dean’s head, lazy and slow. An afterthought. Dean pushed it away and groaned, turning over to the other side. The sheets caught in his ankles, wrapping around his legs. It felt good. So good. Like one of those…one of those cocoons from biology class Sammy was always yapping on about these days.

            “Sammy?” Dean mumbled through his hot, dry mouth.

            “He’s back at the motel, Dean.”

            “Who—whoareyou?” Dean said, the words tumbling out in one sleepy, dry mess. He hadn’t yet bothered to open his eyes, but the voice sounded familiar. Not Sam, not his father…someone else. Someone _safe_.

            “Don’t you remember?” the voice said, thick with concern.

 _That’s weird_ , Dean thought. He yawned into his pillow. No one was ever _concerned_ over his wellbeing. Except Sammy, of course, but Dean always kept the bad shit from him. It was better that way, and Dean had sworn years ago that he would try his damnedest to keep everything wrong with this world far away from Sam. Sam was too good, too innocent. He deserved it.

            “Mmhm,” Dean mumbled, even though he didn’t. Remember what? All he cared about was this bed.

            “Oh. Good,” the voice said. Dean heard a _clink_ of metal, then again. _Clink_. “I’ve brought you something for when you’re awake.”

            Dean sniffed despite the warm wash of sleep begging for him to step under. _Is that…bacon?_ He sniffed again, deeper. _And…apple pie?_

            Dean turned his face towards the scents. He cracked open one eye, prying apart his sleep-crusted lashes. A pair of blue eyes swam before him. Dean blinked. Now those brilliant blue eyes had a mouth, and a nose, and hair, and a…trenchcoat.

            It was like a trickle of ice cold water ran down his spine. Dean startled, sitting bolt upright with his back against the hard wooden headboard.

            “Dean? What’s wrong? Is it the food—”

            “Castiel,” Dean said. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could see how fast his bare chest was rising and falling. Dean shut his eyes and tried to take a deep breath. “What,” he said, before swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. “What happened last night?”

            Castiel’s eyes softened at the corners, and his full lips parted in hesitation. Dean stared into those pretty blue eyes—they were safe yet unfamiliar, breathtakingly warm yet laced with something still and strong, like steel. They were like anchors, keeping him from drifting off into the violent memories swirling against the edges of his mind. It was a dangerous thought.

            “Tell me,” Dean demanded. He winced at how broken his voice sounded. Maybe it was just from sleep.

            “I found you in an alley. A man was attacking you so I…I brought you here,” Castiel said, gesturing with a hand. Dean ran his eyes around the small motel room, only now noticing the source of those smells that he had woken to. On a cart beside Castiel’s chair were two uncovered platters, one with a stack of crispy pink bacon and another with two slices of golden apple pie. Another two plates sat beside them, still covered.

            Dean nodded. He somehow knew Castiel was telling the truth. Dean could sense the memories, but it was like they were coming in on a television with bad signal, grainy and distorted, lacking most sound and color.

            Dean felt a prickling sensation on his hips, and he shut his eyes. _That_ he remembered, clear as day. The man’s hands crushing into his hipbones, holding Dean against the rough brick wall as he…as he…

            He opened his eyes and glanced down. At first Dean frowned. He couldn’t see any visible bruises or scrapes. As he lifted up the pink comforter to get a better look, he felt red-hot heat rush to his cheeks.

            “Castiel,” Dean started, letting the blanket fall back down. “Why am I naked?”

            Castiel tilted his head. “From the shower,” he said simply.

            “The shower?”

            Castiel pursed his lips, then nodded. “I suppose you forgot, but you took a shower last night before going to bed. I didn’t—I didn’t see you or anything, if that’s your concern. I had stepped outside for some air.”

            Dean lifted a hand to his hair, brushing back the unruly strands. Damp. He didn’t _remember_ taking a shower last night, but it made sense. Dean always scrubbed his skin raw after any kind of…paid encounter. It would make sense that he would do the same after…after what happened. A pang of shame shot thought his chest at the thought, and Dean felt his skin crawl. _Stop thinking about it_ , Dean told himself. _Stop thinking and get the fuck over_ _it. You’ve had worse_.

            A pair of phantom hands curled around his hips. Dean shuddered and took a few shaky breaths until the feeling disappeared.

            Trauma was a real son of a bitch.

            “Dean? Are you ok?”

            He looked back over, suddenly realizing he had curled himself up, like a child during a storm with his knees tucked into his chest beneath the blanket. Another wave of heat crashed over his cheeks, and Dean straightened. “Um, I’m fine, Castiel.” He glanced towards the food, and his stomach grumbled anxiously. “Is that…?”

            Castiel stared at him, wide-eyed, before following Dean’s gaze. “That? Oh, yes, I decided to order some of your—some popular favorites from the motel kitchen. I hope you don’t mind, but I figured you would be hungry” he added, almost shyly.

            Dean’s stomach grumbled louder. He would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling so…off. That was it. He felt off, weird, out of place. He’d have to focus on that later, though.

            With a thankful smile, Dean began to get out of the bed. Just as his feet hit the floor, he remembered. _Shit_.

            “Uh, Castiel?”

            “Yes, Dean?”

            Dean glanced down. “You don’t happen to know where my clothes are, do you?”

            “I do.” Then after a moment, Castiel’s eyes widened in understanding. He stood and walked over to the dresser. As he handed over Dean’s clothes from last night, Dean frowned. They looked good as new. Dean lifted them to his face and sniffed. _Definitely_ good as new.

            “I had them washed,” Castiel said.

            Dean looked over to where Castiel stood by the dresser. “You did? Why?”

            Castiel shrugged as he softly pressed the drawer closed, then looked back over at Dean. “I had time.”

            Dean inhaled the scent again. God, he loved fresh laundry, even if he’d never admit it. “Well thanks. Again.” He gave what he hoped was an appreciative smile. “Would you mind? I’m gonna…”

            Castiel nodded. “I think there’s coffee in the lobby.”

            Once the door had swung closed, Dean finally stood. He stretched, arching his back and raising up his arms in a way you can only do completely and utterly naked. That was a fact.

            Dean took his fresh pile of clothes and headed into the bathroom. He walked straight past the mirror towards the toilet, sighing in relief as he released a night’s worth of liquid into the bowl. When he was done, Dean glanced over at the sink. He didn’t want to see what that man had done to him.

            Hesitantly, Dean stepped in front of the mirror. Only after he scrubbed his hands clean did he look up. He let his eyes roam over his reflected body, then he turned to assess the other side.

            “What the hell?” Dean whispered, his brows pulled taunt in confusion. He looked fine. Better than fine—he looked just like his pile of clothes did. Good as new. _Better_ than new.

            Dean tore his eyes away from the mirror to look down at himself, just in case the reflection had lied.

             He looked for a solid minute but didn’t see a mark or scratch on him. When his eyes passed over his hip, Dean felt another shudder roll down his body, and he forced himself to take a few calming breaths.

            _You’re fine. See?_

            Dean could have sworn that the son of a bitch’s hands had left a bruise. He even touched the skin on both sides, just to see if it was sore.

            Wrong again.

            Dean glanced back up at the boy in the mirror. If he looked so _normal_ , then why did he feel so shitty? It was like someone had plunged a spear through his chest only to sew him back up and claim it never happened. That feeling of _offness_ from before was something else, Dean realized. Like something had been torn from him. Empty.

            He felt empty, so why did he look so whole?

            Dean stared at the tear rolling down his freckled cheek. He wanted to slap it, to tell his stupid brain to snap the hell out of whatever was wrong. He wanted to feel _something_ , something that would explain the emptiness in his chest. Even if that something hurt.

            “Snap out of it,” he mumbled aloud, hoping it would have a better effect. Dean picked his clothes off the floor and began jamming his feet into the legs of his boxers and jeans. “Snap the hell out of it. You’re _fine_.”

            Another tear escaped as he pulled on his flannel. When he was dressed, Dean took another look at himself in the mirror. _There_ , he thought, a sour taste creeping into his mouth. _At least I look normal_.

            When Dean walked back into the room, he paused; Castiel hadn’t returned yet from his coffee run. He stared at the empty chair by his bedside and frowned: had Castiel stayed there all night?

            Dean’s eyes drifted to the food, some of which was probably cold by now. His stomach grumbled—cold food was better than no food. And it wasn’t like they had anything better back at their own motel.

            Dean’s gaze shifted back to chair, and he thought about Castiel sitting there, watching over him as he slept. People didn’t _do_ that, did they? Especially not strangers for some whore they found behind a dive bar. At least not without expectations. Castiel knew who he was—he knew what Dean could give, the only thing he had to give. Castiel had probably been waiting all night to get his payment. The food, the coffee, the motel room—those were all just a part of it, right? Dean had been paid to fuck a few guys that put on the Ritz for him. It was like a show, a charity event. Make the whore feel special before you stick your dick down his throat.

            _Maybe he really is just nice_. Dean quickly shoved back the thought. People weren’t just nice, and they especially weren’t nice to him. This Castiel guy was just waiting for his chance to cash in his favor, or worse…take it. And Dean couldn’t let that happen again.

            Dean approached the room service cart, then he skimmed a finger across the plate of oozing apple pie. He brought the sticky finger to his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as the sweet, slightly tart filling met his tongue.

            He grabbed the nearby fork and carved off a bite, then another and another before remembering that Castiel would probably be back soon, and Dean wanted to be long gone before then.

            With a sigh and a sad smile at the pie, Dean put the fork down. “You’re gorgeous,” he muttered, before stepping away.

            Dean slipped out the door and looked both ways down the hallway. White and pink striped wallpaper stretched in both directions, with an old, brown carpet lining the way. Dean tried to remember which way they had come in, but that part of the night was still too hazy to make much sense of.

            Shrugging, Dean took off towards the right, and after passing a couple dozen doors, he spotted a glass exit door around the corner, its red sign glowing overhead.

            “Jackpot,” Dean whispered. He began to walk towards it when Castiel’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

            “Dean?”

            He turned. Castiel stood at the other end of the hallway wearing blue-eyed concern and two steaming mugs. “What?”

            “I had to wait while the coffee was prepared, there was a mix-up with the barista and I insisted that yours had cream _and_ sugar—”

            “Save it,” Dean growled, cutting him off.

            “Save…?”

            “Save the act, all of it,” Dean said, waving a hand down Castiel’s body. He stepped forward, hands curling into fists. “The whole rich guy in a trenchcoat with his charity case—I am not your charity case, or anybody’s, and I’m not gonna go back in that room to drink coffee before—”

            “Before what, Dean?” Castiel said softly, his head cocking to the side. The mugs remained steady in his hands. “What do you think I would do?”

            Dean bit his lip. His fists opened and closed. _God_ how he wanted to trust this man. Somewhere deep down, Dean knew the guy had saved him last night, but it was too risky. Dean couldn’t let himself be broken again. He was fucked up and fucked over enough to last a while. He couldn’t keep staring at his reflection and breaking into fucking tears.

            Castiel’s wide blue eyes were too much. Dean dropped his gaze and said quietly, “I have to go. Thank you for the room and the pie.”

            Dean turned on his heel and pushed through the door. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Castiel’s face through the glass, hurt and confused. He looked forward at the sidewalk ahead of him, but something nagged at his brain to look back. Maybe he thought Castiel would go after him, maybe Castiel would try to convince him otherwise, prove that good people did exist in this fucked up world.

            But when he looked back, Castiel was gone.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been a while since updating! I just started a new job so I won't be able to update more than once a week. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the latest developments and please let me know what you're liking so far!


	4. Liquid Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading since this fic was first posted a few months ago, take note. When I first posted this chapter I had completely forgotten that the demon that attacked Dean was killed. You can go back and read my retcon in the first chapter, but tl;dr, Cas had his angel blade out, but before he could kill the demon, the demon disappeared. Yeah, so sorry for the mistake, hope ya'll are still happy with the story. Thanks!

            “How’s it going, Castiel?”

            Castiel didn’t even have to turn to know Naomi had popped up beside him in the motel lobby. He kept his gaze firmly on the window, watching Dean Winchester stroll through the parking lot. He didn’t say a word until the boy was gone, disappeared down the street. Finally he turned.

            “I should have gone after him,” Castiel said quietly. He looked over at the lady at the front desk to see if she was paying them any attention. She wasn’t. Her chewing gum appeared to be much more entertaining than the two angels sitting in her crusty motel lobby.

            “Yes,” Naomi said, “but also no. Humans are fickle, Castiel. Befriend them too quickly, and things get…complicated.”

            Castiel huffed and shook his head. He turned back to the window, wishing, hoping the boy would wander back in his direction. If only to make Castiel’s job easier, of course. “That would involve not completely pushing him away in the first place.”

            “Do not worry, Castiel. Have faith that he’ll come back around.”

            “How?” he said, glancing at her. “And what of the abomination I saw assaulting the boy? Do you have faith that that problem too will be solved through faith?”

            Naomi’s lips pursed, then her eyes shot up towards ceiling. She breathed out a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I have to go. I will check with you soon to discuss your progress. Until then…patience.”

            Behind him, gum snapped. Castiel twisted to look at the woman with sticky pink goo covering her lips. He glanced back around, eyes drifting over Naomi’s empty armchair. “Patience,” Castiel muttered. He wondered how much he had to give to this strange, human world.

* * *

 

 

            After collecting his car, Dean drove straight home to his father’s motel room, windows open, classic rock blasting. Every time he stopped at a light, some man in a suit or woman with her screaming kids shot him a nasty look.

            It felt nice to act like himself again.

            As soon as he closed the door softly behind him and slid the room key back into his pocket, Dean felt Sammy’s judging eyes on his back.

            “Heya Sammy,” Dean said, trying to sound cheerful. He turned to see Sam on one of the beds, schoolwork spread out before him on the forest green comforter. The pullout Sam always slept on was disheveled and abandoned. “I see you’ve stolen my bed. Also, it’s Saturday, man. Who does homework on a freakin Saturday?” He grinned, but Sam’s frown only deepened.

            “I do,” Sam said, crossing his skinny arms in front of his chest. “And maybe you would too, if you didn’t stay out all night.”

            Dean’s grin dropped and he crossed the room and plopped down beside Sam. He could already tell that this wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped.

            “Well? Where were you?” Sam asked.

            Dean let himself fall back, eyes closing as his head hit the mattress. “Out.”

            “Do you really want me to guess what that means?”

            “Go for it,” Dean grumbled.

            Sam was silent for a few moments, and when Dean cracked open an eye, he saw Sam’s face twisted with worry as he stared down at the text book in his lap. “Were you getting drunk with those bad kids from school again? You know…the ones with the leather pants and spiky hair?”

            Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t so emotionally drained. If that’s what the kid thought…hell. Better than the truth. Honestly, his head felt so stuffed with cotton that he wasn’t even sure what the truth was. “Yeah. I was, uh, getting drunk over at the park behind the school. But that’s it, ok? Nothing to worry about.”

            Sam nodded, but his brows were still creased with worry. Dean sighed and sat up, savoring the way blood rushed from his head. At least his body was still working properly, even if his head was fucked. He draped an arm over Sam’s shoulders, then ruffled his too-long hair. Sam tried to squirm away, but it was a halfhearted attempt.

            “You can’t just tell me to stop worrying,” Sam said when Dean let his hand drop back down. He kept his arm around his brother’s shoulders, hoping Sam wouldn’t tell him to fuck off quite yet.

            “I can. You’re a kid, Sammy. You don’t gotta be worrying about me like that.”

            Sam’s hazel eyes widened as he stared into Dean’s face, searching for…something. Something the kid was too young to be lookin for. “You’re a kid too, Dean. If I don’t worry about you, who will? It’s not like Dad has time to.”

            Dean bit his lip and gave Sam’s thin body a hard squeeze. The name _Castiel_ popped into his head before Dean shoved it aside. Castiel wasn’t the answer. Castiel was a stranger. A stranger who felt safe, who made Dean feel cared for. Worried for. Even when Dean snuck out this morning after telling Castiel to leave him alone.

            That shit was a lie, though. He had to forget about it. Pretend it never happened. His memory was so foggy, anyway. Forgetting the rest was going to be easy.

            “I can look out for myself _and_ my snot-nosed kid brother,” he said quietly. Dean dropped his arm and looked at Sam’s homework. He grabbed a geometry worksheet and pulled it closer. “Now let’s get this school shit done before lunch, K?”

* * *

 

 

            “Hello,” Castiel said, looking up at the waitress standing beside him. He twisted his yellow plastic barstool around to see a pot of coffee in her hand.

            “That coffee’s going to get cold, you know,” the pretty blonde woman said with a cherry red smile. “Been here for a few hours all by yourself. You want a new cup? Or some company? The diner’s pretty empty at the moment.”

            Castiel looked down. Dark liquid filled his mug, stagnant. “No thank you,” he told her. She stared at him expectantly until Castiel put on a smile and said, “I am waiting for a friend.”

            The waitress’s face fell. Castiel waited until she was on the opposite side of the diner helping an elderly couple, then let his gaze return to the wide window before him. He took a sip of the stale coffee, swirling it in his mouth.

            “Molecules. Aren’t they just horrible?” a female voice said from beside him.

            Castiel swallowed. “Naomi. I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.” He swiveled to look at her stern face.

            “And I didn’t know you’d spend the next five hours in a diner across the street from Dean Winchester’s motel. I see a pattern is emerging with you, Castiel. Why don’t you go talk to him? Regain his trust?”

            Castiel’s gaze returned to the window. The dark tinted doors to the motel were propped open, but he couldn’t see further than the small lobby. “It’s not going to be that easy. I can’t just walk in there and…”

            Castiel’s voice fell away as he turned back to Naomi. “Unless you’re here to discuss the demon that attacked Dean Winchester, I have nothing new to report,” he said firmly, eyes narrowing.

            Naomi let out a little laugh, then stretched her fingers out to grasp the handle of his coffee mug. She took a sip, grimacing, then said simply, “the demon that attacked Mr. Winchester is not of great interest to heaven.”

            “The archangels assign me to look after Dean, then that very night, he is attacked by a demon. Do you really expect me to believe the two are unrelated? Or that you don’t know? I expected Michael to have more trust in you, Naomi.”

            A smirk emerged on Naomi’s face as she set the mug down. “ _Dean_ , is it? Based off your progress, I hadn’t expected you to have such a fondness for the human.”

            “Don’t change the subject,” Castiel growled.

            “Would you really question me, Castiel? An high-ranking agent of heaven? What reason do I have to lie to your about this mission? The fact is that the orders came down to me from higher up, and all the information I have since been given is a name for the abomination.”

            Castiel searched her face, but it was nothing but cold muscles, pale eyes, and a hard mouth. “You have a name?”

            “Yes,” Naomi sighed, pushing back from the counter and standing. She straightened the hem of her suit jacket. “Alastair,” she spat out like poison.

            He waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t, Castiel said, frowning, “that’s it? That’s all heaven knows?”

            She gave him a pointed look. “That is all the archangels want you to know. But Castiel…” Naomi took a step closer and looked to see they weren’t being watched. “More… _shit_ as these humans say is headed for Dean Winchester. Do your job, and everyone will be happy.

            He nodded.

            “Oh, and Castiel,” she said, looking down at the counter. Castiel followed her gaze to his still-full mug. “Humans don’t drink cold, black coffee alone at diners. Do try to fit in.” With that, Naomi sighed and shot him a quick, sharp smile. “Let’s stop meeting like this.”

            And she was gone. Castiel scanned the diner to see if anyone had noticed her abrupt disappearance until his eyes met those of a toddler peeking out from the back of the booth behind him. A milkshake straw was stuck in her messy, chocolate-covered mouth.

            “I’m sorry,” Castiel told her in a low voice. The child’s eyes widened in shock. “No one will believe you anyway, but…it’s my job as an servant of heaven.”

            Castiel stood, pressed a finger to the child’s forehead, coiled his wings, then let them open wide as he flew away from the diner.

* * *

 

 

            Dean hadn’t been expecting his father to come home for dinner, and he wasn’t happy to see him either.

            “I’ll open another can of SpaghettiOs,” Dean muttered to Sam as he rose from the rickety little motel table. He pushed his own serving over towards the empty chair, then took the few steps over to their makeshift kitchen. As Dean heated back up the gas stove, he listened to John grumbling on about how no one would sell him a drink before six anymore. 

            “Hey,” his father’s gruff voice said. Dean turned.

            “What?”

            “Gimme that…you know…”

            Dean rolled his eyes and turned back around. He rummaged through the cabinet for the bottle of whiskey John kept hidden in the back.

            Once Dean had a new bowl made, he dragged his ass back to the table, slid the bottle and a glass over to John, and sat, waiting for his soup to cool off.

            “Were you hunting today?” Sam asked, some-what cheerfully.

            “Tryin’ to. Ain’t much left in this part of the state to kill.”

            “Oh,” Sam said. He returned to his soup.

            “How’s school?” John murmured, shoving a big spoonful into his mouth. He washed it down with a swallow of whiskey.

            Sam glanced over to Dean, who nodded encouragingly. “Great. I got an A on my last geometry test.”

            John huffed. “Aren’t you too young to be learning that hard shit? Dean, when they teach you that?”

            “Uh, ninth grade? I don’t really remember,” Dean added quickly. “But Sammy’s real smart, ya know. Especially when we stay longer in a town. Teachers really start to notice.”

            John took another gulp, and Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. Tonight was going to be one of the rough ones. “We’ll stay as long as there ain’t no monsters left to kill. Don’t be stupid.”

            “Dean’s not st—” Sam blurted out, before Dean stomped down on his foot. Hard. Sam’s eyes widened, but he clamped his mouth shut.

            John raised one dangerous eyebrow. “You got something to say, boy?” he asked, eyes burning into Sam’s. John set his spoon down as thick silence stretched between them, seconds like minutes.

            The shrill scream of the telephone cracked the air open, and all three of them turned to look at the phone on the night table. It rang again. Dean stood.

            “I’ll get it,” he said, heart hammering as he approached the phone. “I, uh, was waiting for a friend to call me back.”

             For some goddamn reason, he had a feeling about who the caller was, even if he couldn’t remember if he had given their number out to Blue-eyes last night. Dean took a breath, picked up the phone, and cradled it to his ear.

            “Hello? Hello, Dean?”

            Dean closed his eyes and ran a hand over his mouth. Fuck. He still hadn’t forgotten Castiel’s voice. “Yes, this is Dean,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. Dean glanced over his shoulder. Sammy eyed him curiously, but John was too busy gulping down liquor to pay him too much attention.

            “Oh, good, I was beginning to think the front desk attendant had given me the wrong number.”

            “How did you find where I’m living?”

            The other end was silent for a moment, then Castiel said carefully, “you gave me your address last night, Dean. In case you weren’t able to make it home.”  

            Dean bit his lip. He was surprised his past self had been so thoughtful in the state he’d been in. “Ok,” he said, taking another breath. “Then why are you calling me after I told you to leave me the hell alone?”

            “I—I wanted to make sure you were ok, Dean. That nothing else had happened.”

            “What were you expecting, Cas?” Dean said, lowering his voice to a hard whisper. “That the creep was going to break into my motel during dinner?”

            “Maybe,” Castiel said softly. “I was worried about you…and I’m worried you’re going to do something dangerous.”

            Dean wrapped the telephone cord around his finger, winding and unwinding, watching it pop back into shape every time. There it was again. _Worry_. No one was supposed to worry about him. “Look, man, I appreciate the thought and your help last night, but…I don’t know you. I don’t need your worry, or pity, or whatever it is. And I ain’t stupid enough to go after the fucker. So just…just don’t call back here. It’ll be the wrong number soon anyway.”

            Dean pulled the receiver away from his head, wondering if he should say something else. _Sorry_ , maybe. He felt bad, for some reason. Like a pit was seeding in his stomach. He raised the phone back up.

            The line was dead.

            He plopped back down in his seat and saw that both John and Sammy’s bowls were scraped empty. John’s glass was full, but Dean knew it wasn’t still his first glass.

            “So now you’re makin’ friends, boy?” John said, words slurred.

            “It wasn’t a friend. Not really.”

            John looked over his glass at Dean, silent for a moment. “You acting real weird tonight.”

            Dean swallowed a laugh. “Yeah, well, we all got our own problems I guess.”

            “Girl problems?”

            “Something like that.”

            John set down his glass and attempted to top it off. The whiskey splashed onto the table, so Dean gently pried it from his father’s hands and poured it himself.

            “Thanks,” he murmured. “You know what, son? You can’t let your problems just sit there watchin you struggle. You face ‘em head-on, you hear? Take the fight to ‘em.” John raised the glass to his lips and downed half of it. “Someone hurts you, you don’t just take it. You fight back, or you die fucking trying.”

            John’s eyelids began to flutter shut. Dean and Sam locked eyes. “You know that’s bullshit, right?” Sam whispered pointedly as he gathered their dirty dishes. Dean corked the whiskey and hid it back inside the cabinet.

            “Yeah,” Dean said. He leaned back against the counter, watching his big hulk of a father’s chin droop down onto his chest. “Course it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found time to write more after some encouragement to a lovely commenter. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you thought! I know it was a slower chapter, but I am setting up for exciting times ahead. Stay tuned :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know if you'd like to read more!


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